The Mongoliad: Book Three

Raphael had taken. R?dwulf grimaced and belched, eliciting a cheer from Eleazar on the other side of the fire. The Spaniard raised the other skin of arkhi in salute.

“I have drunk many strange things in my travels,” Raphael admitted, “but this drink of the Mongols is difficult to acquire a taste for.”

“I’ve had worse.” R?dwulf offered the skin, but Raphael begged off. “That tree sap in Greece, for instance.”

“Retsina,” Yasper moaned. “Oh, the Greeks know many things, but it is a pity that they could not apply the same rigor to the crafting of wines as they do to the natural sciences and philosophy.”

“Philosophy cannot solve every riddle, my friend,” R?dwulf said.

“Making a decent spirit is not that hard of a riddle,” Yasper countered. He received the second skin from Eleazar. “Do you know how the Mongols make this? They prepare the ingredients and attach it to their saddles. As they ride, the heat of the sun and the movement of their horse create a perfect environment for the spirits to arise.”

“It sounds like you admire them,” Istvan slurred from his semi-supine position next to R?dwulf.

Yasper shrugged. “Each of them is entirely self-reliant. They carry food and drink. Tools to mend their clothes and their weapons. Furs to sleep on. They can shoot from horseback, without any care as to the direction they face. A single Mongol could ride from one edge of the world to the other, and never suffer from any want. One man is dangerous, but when you field thousands of men like this, they become unstoppable.”

Raphael glanced around the fire, and based on the expressions on the faces of the others, judged that few of the company shared the alchemist’s admiration. Yasper, becoming aware of the silence in which the crackling shift of fire-glazed wood was overloud, lowered his eyes and struggled to find the words to repair the damage he had done to the mood.

“A woman’s touch,” Istvan croaked.

“I beg your pardon?” Raphael asked, eager to welcome the distraction.

“That’s what they’re missing.” The Hungarian waved a hand toward the shadowy shapes of their hobbled horses. “Where would you put a whore?” He shrugged, the answer seemingly self-evident-even in his demented state. “They can’t ride forever,” he said. “A man can eat and sleep in his saddle, take a piss, and shit, even. Eventually he’s going to have to stop.” His head lolled back and he stared, unseeingly, at the night sky.

Eleazar guffawed, and when Raphael realized the Spaniard was looking at him, he felt his face redden. He tried very hard not to steal a glance at Vera, who sat between Yasper and Percival. Separate from him, but not that far away.

“Finally, something you and I agree on,” Eleazar said, nodding toward Istvan. “What is the point of riding across the world if you don’t get to enjoy the array of riches it has to offer you?”

Vera spat a hunk of gristle into the fire where it snapped and sizzled. Percival shifted awkwardly and leaned forward as if to come to her aid in the conversation, but Vera stilled him with a steely glance. “No,” she said, “the man with the huge sword speaks true. Were I as well-endowed as he, I would make sure to sheath such a weapon in every town I conquered. ’Tis only the basic rule of rapine, is it not? Take what isn’t yours. At sword point no less.”

“Eh,” Eleazar blanched, refusing to meet Vera’s intense gaze. “That is not what I meant. I only-”

“My Shield-Maidens and I were in Kiev when the Mongols came,” Vera snapped. “It had been more than ten years since rumors of this invincible army had reached the city-ten years of waiting, of living in fear that the stories we had heard from the Cumans about the battle at the Kalka River were true. The Ruthenian nobility dismissed these stories, lying to themselves that they had been victorious at Kalka, that they had driven the horde away. They fought among themselves, ignorant children squabbling over lies of their own making, and when the horde came back-and it most certainly did-none of them were prepared.

“Refugees from the cities conquered by the Mongols streamed into Kiev. Our wards filled with wounded, women and children who had not been so badly maimed that they couldn’t still walk tens and hundreds of miles to our citadel. These were the lucky ones, and though we did what we could for their physical wounds, each was deeply scarred by what they had seen, by what had been done to them. We could not help them. We could only offer prayers that their suffering would be eased.”

Tossing her gnawed bone into the fire, Vera got to her feet. “By the time the Mongol army actually appeared outside the gates of Kiev, we were numb from the stories we had heard. From our citadel, we can see beyond each of the gates, and we watched the plains fill with enemy soldiers. Kiev had been besieged before; it was a jewel each of the Ruthenian princes longed to possess. But this army was different. The Khan-Batu-did not want to take Kiev as a treasure; he wanted to destroy it. Utterly.”

Tears streamed down her face, and she angrily swiped them off her cheeks. Her eyes were bright with firelight. “I would submit that Kiev was one of the grandest cities in the world. I had watched it welcome all of the lost refugees from the surrounding principalities. It clasped all of these frightened people to its bosom and found places for them within its walls. It was a haven. It was home. And the Mongols burned it all, simply because they could.”

After a long silence, Eleazar shifted awkwardly and opened his mouth to speak, but Vera cut him off with a savage slash of her hand. “They are monsters,” she said, her voice hard. “Just as the men of the West have been monsters as well to those who they strive to subjugate, and I am not such a fool to think that all men are monsters, but by the blood of the Virgin, I will not ride with men who cannot remember the sanctity of their oaths or how to honor those whom they have sworn to protect.”

Eleazar lowered his gaze. “I have erred greatly by insulting you, lady of the skjalddis,” he said. His face was flushed, ruddy even, in the firelight. “It burdens my heart greatly to think that you might remember me by the ill-formed speech, and I hope that the words I have spoken this evening may, someday, be erased from your memory.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Vera’s mouth as she nodded, her hands unclenching. “I have heard tales from some of my more traveled sisters of the sweet-tongued men from Iberia,” she said. “Though your speech is rough-hewn, Eleazar, I know it to be from your heart, unlike the words you spoke earlier, and for that I am thankful.”

She turned her attention to the other side of the fire where Istvan lay, his head still thrown back. His mouth was open, and he shuddered and gurgled when R?dwulf kicked his leg. The Hungarian raised his head, closing his mouth and working his tongue against his teeth. “What?” he asked, blinking like a surprised doe.

“The lady finds you offensive,” Percival said quietly.

Istvan stared up at Vera for a second, and then idly waved a hand in her direction. “Of course she does,” he muttered. “She’s one of you.” He let his head slip back, and his attention wandered back up to the scattered stars across the wide night sky.

Yasper was the first to laugh, a dry chuckle that slowly worked its way around the fire, increasing in volume as each member of the company joined in, allowing a little levity to escape.

Vera threw a small stone at Istvan, who flinched as it bounced off his chest, flapping a hand as if he was brushing away a fly. She sat back down, and as she did so she met Raphael’s gaze.

He returned it, having gotten much better about not looking away when she looked at him, and he found himself inordinately pleased that she appeared to be comforted by his presence.

While R?dwulf was telling a war story that seemed as if it would last longer than it would take for a man to fetch back one of the Englishman’s longest arrow flights, Raphael excused himself and wandered off to piss. He walked downwind until he was at the edge of the fire’s light, and after kicking the scraggly bush in front of him to make sure there was no nocturnal creature hiding in it, he stood and watered the plant.

As he finished, he heard the soft slap of a leather boot against the hard ground, and a hand fell on his shoulder. “A moment, brother,” Percival said. Raphael nodded, and kept his gaze directed outward as Percival watered the next bush over.

“Tarry with me a while,” the tall knight suggested as he finished. He pointed to his left. “Let us make the night circle,” he said, referring to an old technique of nighttime patrolling. Two men would walk widdershins around a camp-one directing his attention to the ground before them, the other keeping his eyes trained outward. The outward-looking man would not have his vision spoiled by firelight from the camp, knowing that his companion was